


The Fourth Heir

by LadyKenz347



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Blood Magic, F/M, Horcrux Creation, M/M, Sacrifice, Violence
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-14
Packaged: 2020-05-07 16:42:12
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,487
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19213411
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LadyKenz347/pseuds/LadyKenz347
Summary: Tom Riddle will stop at nothing in his crusade to live forever.





	The Fourth Heir

**Author's Note:**

  * In response to a prompt by [TheSlytherinCabal](https://archiveofourown.org/users/TheSlytherinCabal/pseuds/TheSlytherinCabal) in the [DBQ2019Round4](https://archiveofourown.org/collections/DBQ2019Round4) collection. 



 

* * *

 Part I: The Diadem of Rowena Ravenclaw

* * *

 

 

**Spring 1946**

 

Their feet landed on a grassy knoll, and Eliana doubled over, her knees slamming into the damp grass. Nausea roiled in her belly as she struggled to make out her surroundings.

 

“Tom?” she called, standing on wobbly legs. “Where are we?” With wide, curious eyes, Eliana examined the sprawling landscape around them.

 

Tom’s back was to her, his gaze fixated on a crooked little tree at the top of the hill.

 

“Albania,” he called over his shoulder. “It’s a bit far to Apparate. Makes one ill if they aren’t accustomed.”

 

Regaining her composure, Eliana crossed the space between them and wrapped her arms around his waist. With her cheek rested on his chest, she could almost feel the thrumming of his heart against her skin. She had fallen hopelessly in love with Tom Riddle almost the moment they’d met. It was like they had been walking this earth tethered by some unknown force, and each step had been leading them into each other arms.

 

“Why Albania _?”_ She chuckled, but her laughter died away as a gust of wind laced with a revolting scent swirled around them. “Merlin, what is _that?_ ” She gagged.

 

Tom peered down at her. His eyes were… different. Empty. Distant. _Dead._ “There’s something here I need.”

 

The closeness she had come to expect when in his arms shifted, turning dark and twisted and her keen intuition screamed back at her. “Tom?” Her words faded, features crumpling, as she felt a blow beneath her breastbone.

 

“ _Pagamento de Sangue_ ”, Tom mumbled into her silky hair, and a gust of magic cut through the air.

 

She blinked. Once. Twice. Three times.

 

Burning bloomed in her chest, a fire poker piercing her lungs. Her lids grew heavy as her gaze focused on the long, pale fingers cradling a jeweled hilt—the blade of which was buried deep in her abdomen.

 

Then, _pain._

 

Indescribable and all-consuming pain thrashed inside her. Blood sputtered from her pretty lips, and her knees gave out, sheathing the blade deeper inside her.

 

The rancid scent from moments before returned as Tom slid his dagger from her belly and tossed her next to the mottled-blue corpse of the girl at the base of the tree.

 

“It’s sad how easily you were charmed… almost easier than that fucking ghost, Helena. You’re supposed to be clever, for Merlin’s sake. Rowena would be distraught at how her line has ended.” He inspected the blood coating his hand idly before slicing his palm with the tip of the dagger.

 

Oppressive black spots clouded Eliana’s vision, and her skull cracked against the tree bark when she tried to drag herself upright.

 

“I would have been happy to slit the throat of that Muggle girl you’re lying next to, but alas… old blood magic and all that. All this trouble to protect their ridiculous little artifacts—bloody good it did them.” He chuckled, reaching behind her and plucking her ancestral silver diadem from a hollow under the tree. “Get it? _Bloody.”_

 

The world faded to black. She crossed the veil to the sound of his cackling.

 

* * *

Part II: The Cup of Helga Hufflepuff & The Locket of Salazar Slytherin

* * *

 

**Winter 1961**

 

“A nightcap, then?” Davie’s hand trembled as he dropped ice into matching tumblers.

 

His companion shrugged, ambling around the study and perusing the Smith family’s ancient knick-knacks. “Nice place,” Tom noted absently.

 

“It’s not mine, actually. My aunt recently passed away, and as her only surviving heir, I get the distinct honor of sorting through eighty years of trash.” Davie laughed, handing over two fingers of Ogden's Finest and clinking their glasses.

 

As Tom brought it to his lips, he winked quickly. So quickly Davie couldn’t be sure he’d seen it at all. The liquor slid down their throats in a single gulp, and over the thundering in his chest, his breath quickened.

 

Tom seemed less affected as he shuffled around the room again, poking at an iridescent unicorn figurine. Davie was close to him now; he could smell the spicy scent of his cologne, and if he reached out, he could drag his thumb down the coarse stubble on his cheek.

 

Tom’s lidded gaze fell on Davie, staring too long at his lips. Suddenly, Tom’s mouth crashed into his; punishing Davie’s lips with his own and bruising them as they collided again and again.  His kiss was brutal, hungry—almost violent—as he assaulted Davie’s mouth with his tongue.

 

Strong hands gripped his hips, shoving him towards the bookcase as Davie ground their pelvises together, Tom’s growing erection pressing into his thigh.

 

Davie pushed the jacket from Tom’s shoulders and latched his lips onto the hollow under his jaw, earning a wanton moan. In retaliation, Tom tore Davie’s vest open, sending buttons flying, and Davie whimpered when Tom cupped his manhood roughly.

 

Davie’s shaking hands went for Tom’s belt, but with an almost painful grip, his hand was wrenched back. Davie retreated, their chests colliding with their labored breathing. He studied the sharp lines of Tom’s face with a scrutinous glare.

 

Blunt force slammed into his side like a wayward punch. He staggered, hands braced on Tom’s shoulders, and a gasp slipped past his lips.

 

Tom’s forehead pressed into Davie’s temple. “ _Pagamento de Sangue.”_ He spoke the spell softly, almost like a term of endearment, and magic pulsed between them.

 

Warmth bloomed against his oxford, and with trembling hands, he touched where the impact had happened. It wasn’t painful, not yet. It felt unreal. He stared at his bloodstained fingers and the dagger shoved deep in his side. Wicked pain shot through his legs, and he fell in a heap on his aunt’s antique Oriental rug. “What’d you do?” Davie sputtered, his head tilting back and banging against the shelves. “You’re fucking crazy.”

 

Something dangerous flashed over Tom’s features as he squatted next to him and twisted the blade mangling Davie’s stomach. Sticky, hot blood trickled from the corner of his mouth.

 

“Your aunt was a fucking twit. You should have spent a little more time with her; maybe she wouldn’t have gone prowling for young men to sit next to her whilst she shared all her family secrets.” He chuckled condescendingly.

 

Twisting the dagger a final time, Tom ripped it from Davie’s stomach and cut the skin of his own palm.

 

Davie gargled incoherently as Tom rose to his feet, dragging his bloodied hand through his hair and straightening his tie, unphased by the crimson handprints left behind.

 

“You must be wondering who I am,” Tom said casually, inspecting his reflection in the wall mirror. “I’m Tom Riddle, heir of Slytherin. You, Davie Smith, last descendant of Hepzibah Smith, are the heir of Hufflepuff—which I’m sure you know.” Tom’s laugh was low as he pulled his wand from his pocket and waved it over the end table, revealing a jewelry box that Davie and his family believed to be missing.

 

Davie managed a strangled laugh as he toppled to the side and his vision waned. “You’re too late, you fuck. The house-elf took them.”

 

With a withering roll of his eyes, Tom lifted the lid and revealed his ancestor’s golden chalice and a locket. Davie scrambled towards him but was pinned under the weight of Tom’s foot.

 

“You see, Davie, _last of his house_ —” The toe of Tom’s shiny loafer pressed down on his injury, and Davie couldn’t contain the sob that escaped him. “The founders were a little protective over their magical heirlooms. They seemed to think that if one of them—Salazar, in particular—were to obtain all four magical artifacts, he would be unstoppable. Which, if I may be so bold—” Tom held his hands up in innocent defense “—he already was. But I digress.”

 

“So!” Tom clapped his palms together excitedly. “What did those pesky founders do?” he smirked, his eyes crinkling in wicked glee. “ _Blood magic._ These silly little trinkets might not look like much, but have you ever heard of a Horcrux?” Tom paused waiting for a response that he knew wouldn’t come. “I’ll assume from your vacant expression that you haven’t. Well, each one of these little baubles holds a fractured piece of the founder’s soul. Unfortunately protecting it from Salazar’s line. Creating one is a nasty affair; it involves the drinking the blood of a virgin and severing part of your soul… not an easy task.

 

“Now, there are several ways to release a soul from a Horcrux. You can destroy it—which is damn near impossible— _or_ you can repay the blood that was taken when creating it. I know what you’re thinking: _Helga Hufflepuff drinking the blood of a virgin to create a Horcrux?_ ” Tom feigned surprise. “You’d be surprised what people will do for the greater good, Davie.” Tom’s cold glare settled on him once again and he pinched Davie’s chin painfully between his bloody fingers. “The world will soon know that _I am the greater good._ I will finish my ancestor’s work, and the world will kneel at my feet before this is over.” His lips curled up into a vile grin.

 

Flicking his wrist, he sent Davie’s blond head crashing back to the carpet before standing and snagging the golden cup by the handle with his forefinger and spinning it for good measure. He shoved the emerald locket in his pocket and turned once more over his shoulder. “I hope you don’t take any of this personally, Davie. I would’ve loved to fuck you silly. I’m sure you’re an absolute _tomcat_ in the sack.”

 

With a final pitying pout, Tom strolled from the room, twirling the cup like a child's toy.

 

* * *

Part III: The Sword of Godric Gryffindor

* * *

 

 

**Fall 1968**

 

When Rowena’s line fell, Minerva suspected.

 

When Helga’s fell… _she knew._

 

Minerva, unlike the other founders’ descendants, had not grown up with the inherent knowledge of her lineage. She discovered it sitting under a smelly old hat at the tender age of eleven years old. With a thudding heart and an arched brow, she’d learned that which would irrevocably change every day after.

 

_“Minerva, Minerva, Minerva. My, how long I’ve waited for you to sit under my brim,” the mangy old hat crooned. “Clever, curious, unfailingly sharp. If you were anyone else, I’d have announced Ravenclaw house by now. But you have a lion’s heart; it has run in your line for hundreds of years, and it now beats in you. You, the heir to the great house of Godric Gryffindor.”_

 

And so they had sat together, hat and child, while the Sorting Hat mulled over the possible implications of sending Minerva to either house for well over five minutes. As a result, she boasted one of the longest hat-stalls in Hogwarts history.

 

In the end, her blood won. She was, and forever would be, the Heir of Gryffindor.

 

The revelation was quite the shock—even greater than an already shocking situation of having a nonverbal conversation with a hat.

 

As the lines of other founders were severed, shriveling up with the youngest’s gruesome death, Minerva knew that the days were numbered until she faced the true heir of Slytherin.

 

Minerva’s boot heel clicked down the alley as the cold November wind kissing her skin sent a trickle of _something_ down her spine. Tugging the collar of her cloak snugly around her, she felt a prickle of magic on her skin and stopped in her tracks.

 

The magic was unfamiliar, but its touch played on her skin like a caress, and her eyes flickered closed. Drawn by an unknown pull, she wandered the cobbled paths aimlessly. Warmth bloomed on her skin, and she no longer felt the impending winter chill on her skin and found herself in a corner of Diagon she’d never visited.

 

The pull became sharper, as if a string was knotted in her chest and someone was yanking her forward. As she unwittingly complied, the warmth gave way to an icy cascade of strange magic, and she stilled.

 

“You’ve been at Hogwarts for some time now… _Minerva.”_ A slithering male voice skittered across the cobblestone, and Minerva stepped further into the shadows, squinting into the darkness.

 

It was nearly impossible to see, but in the endless black, she made out a hooded figure.

 

“You rarely leave,” he said offhandedly. “It’s almost as if you know I can’t touch you there.”

 

“I wondered when you’d come for me,” Minerva said with a firm jaw, and his resounding laugh cooled her skin.

 

“Godric would be _so_ proud; his last remaining heir hidden away in his castle… _all to avoid me_.”

 

“You? _”_ Minerva challenged, tilting her chin up proudly and sliding her wand into her hand. “Who do you think you are, that I would hide from you?”

 

A spectre shot from the darkness, its face contorted in a scream as it tore through her, and she gasped at the icy chill.

 

A cackle echoed all around her, and a ghostly voice echoed in her ear, everywhere and nowhere all at once. “ _I am the heir of Slytherin. I am… Lord Voldemort.”_

 

Her lungs filled painfully. “I, Minerva McGonagall, Heir of Godric Gryffindor, have the distinct honor of disappointing you. My line will not end today.” Her stance shifted as she brought her wand over her head, pointing it at the darkness.

 

From the tip of her wand, a succession of crimson magic bursts barreled towards the end of the alley, bouncing off an invisible shield and fading away.

 

Tom snarled and stepped from the darkness, his hood slipping to his shoulders and revealing him for the first time. His skin was sunken and gray, _rotting._ Obsidian, deep-set eyes gleamed at her, and his mouth curled in a disgusted scowl. “Interesting,” he mused. “I’d have thought you as easily charmed as little Eliana or poor bumbling Davie, _the fucking fool_. I barely had to blink in their direction to make them writhe beneath my touch. But you? You certainly are a lioness, aren’t you?”

 

She allowed herself one shuddering breath as she thought of the two mutilated heirs that had graced the front pages of the Prophet; she could have been one of them. With a fortifying breath, she continued her attack. Jets of jewel-toned magic poured from her wand, sliding against an invisible barrier.

 

The sheer amount of magic leaving her body left her breathless, and she paused momentarily, heaving tired breaths while her wand arm buzzed.

 

It was a bad choice.

 

Tom began his counter-attack, and it took all of her remaining magic to stave off his curses. Even she had to admit, his casting was beautiful. Like the conductor of an orchestra, his wand moved fluidly from side to side as a symphony of magic swirled through the air and beat down on her _Protego._

 

A bead of perspiration slid down her temple as her boots slid on the cobblestone from the sheer force of his magic.

 

“I’ll make you a deal.” Tom dropped his wand, unphased, and Minerva fell to her knees, sucking in greedy breaths. “Produce the sword, and I’ll only take a _little_ blood.” His lips curled up into a sinister grin, and Minerva’s blood ran cold.

 

“No?” Tom’s unkempt brow rose high on his forehead. “No matter. _Avada Ke_ —”

 

A feral growl tore up her throat, and she swung her wand arm up, bracing it like a shield.

 

Before the emerald light crashed into her, her wand was replaced by the heavy, engraved hilt of the sword of Gryffindor, and his curse buried itself in the ruby gemstone at the base, swallowing its dark magic.

 

A beat of silence passed as they stood in disbelief.

 

“Not possible,” Tom hissed, dropping his wand and taking an angry step towards her.

 

Generations of ancestors steadied her, and she stood with renewed vigor and a determined set to her jaw. Her wrist rotated rapidly, swinging the blade up towards her face, and the dark magic stored inside shot back out, cutting through Tom’s chest. He dropped to his knees.

 

Riddle’s face was awash with horror as he clutched at his chest, his crimson eyes wild.

 

Relief flooded her system as she struck her ancestral blade into the stone. Her voice was sure and strong, shaking only in its timbre and strong Scottish burr. “I know what you’ve done, Tom. Take this day as proof: _no one lives forever._ ”

 

His brow lifted in a challenge. “I’ve nothing but time, Minerva. Your children will never be safe. I will have your blood before the end.” He tittered to himself. “ _This isn’t over.”_

 

In a plume of dark magic, Tom Riddle was swept from the alley, his final words haunting the witch left behind. She cradled the weapon in her arms, studying the beautiful craftsmanship for a moment before muttering the transfiguration spell and calling her wand forth once more.

 

Tom was right about one thing; Minerva had a feeling this was far from over.

 

* * *

Epilogue

* * *

 

 

Tom’s curved, yellowing nail tapped on the rich mahogany of the dining table. Before him were the objects he had come to value above all else. He plucked the diadem from the table and spoke over his shoulder.

 

“Lucius! Bring the first girl,” he drawled.

 

With a snap of his cohort’s fingers, a pretty bound girl was deposited to his left. She thrashed against her constraints while he pet her cheek. “Shhh, child. You are but a thread in a greater tapestry. Your life will not be used in vain.” His cold fingers tangled in her hair, yanking the virgin’s head back and slicing her throat with the tip of his wand in a single fluid movement.

 

He plucked his goblet from the table and caught the blood that poured from her throat in the chalice. The girl fell in a heap to the floor next to him, twitching in her final moments of life as he stared at the diadem and brought the silver cup to his lips. “ _Sparge Sufletul meu_ ,” he intoned, his eyes fluttering closed as the still-warm liquid coated his tongue.

 

Inside him, his soul fractured, a ripping that tore through him, and a shriek bounced from the walls.

 

Malfoy stepped up, his shoulders trembling as he stared at the young girl’s lifeless body. “You’ve done it then, sir? You’ve actually created a— a _Horcrux?”_

 

“It wasn’t the first,” Voldemort said with a tired voice. “It won’t be the last. Bring the next girl.”

 

“Sir, maybe you ought to rest.”

 

Lucius dropped to his knees, writhing in pain from a wordless curse. “When I command something of you, you do it. _Bring the girl.”_ Lucius gasped for air as the spell faded away and he crawled through the girl’s blood towards the line of wailing sacrifices all awaiting their fate.

 

“I will have that sword,” Tom vowed to himself, setting his newest Horcrux on the table with the others. His eyes turned to the Hufflepuff heirloom, and he picked it up gingerly. “I will have it, and I will make them mine in a way that Salazar could have never imagined.”

 

* * *

 

Minerva burst through the door to the headmaster’s office, robes billowing around her and a stern frown on her lips. “Sir? Was that Tom Riddle leaving the castle just now?”

 

“It was.” Dumbledore smiled sadly. “It is sad to see what has become of him.”

 

“You know what he’s done. How could you let him leave?” Minerva’s voice was indignant as she stormed further into the room. “He brought the diadem, sir. I could _feel_ it.”

 

“It’s true,” Dumbledore croaked, falling into the plush chair behind his desk and folding his long fingers over his silver beard. “The diadem. The cup. The locket. They’re his Horcruxes now. If I’m not mistaken, the diadem is now hidden amongst the other lost things where Tom believes they will never be found.”

 

Minerva clung to hope that _Lord Voldemort_ , as he had dubbed himself, couldn’t have accomplished the unthinkable. It wasn’t possible that three of four of the most magical items in history could be vessels for his shattered soul. If it were true, Minerva had no idea what the future held.

 

“I weakened him that day, sir. I know I did. Maybe we’re wrong…”

 

Albus smiled crookedly. “I fear he may have made more than the three in his panic.”

 

“That’s impossible,” Minerva breathed.

 

“Do you have the sword?” he asked with a feeble voice.

 

With a flourish of her wand, the sword of Godric Gryffindor materialised on the cluttered desk between them. Albus stared at it in reverence. “It will be safe in Hogwarts—as will you. This castle has borne of magic, magic that runs through your veins.”

 

Minerva’s heart fluttered and she squared her shoulders. “Are you telling me I can’t leave?”

 

Albus’ clear blue eyes twinkled behind his half-moon spectacles, and he shook his head. “Of course not. I’m saying you shouldn’t.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> Disclaimer: the characters do not belong to me, but are property of J.K.R. And Warner Bros and no copyright infringement is intended. 
> 
> For this round the finalists could only use one pairing and the Blood Magic theme, but could choose a booster between 800 more words to be added to the max word count, 24 more hours to submit the piece and one extra point to be added to the overall score. 
> 
> I would like to thank my alpha and/or my beta for their work.


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